From the day the magic of words grabbed your pen,
You have had an ink, an ink that settles any tumult inside.  
Your scarlet ink blots the pages,
Very much like what it does to a million minds.

From the day you’ve learned to walk, you’d rather dance
You’d rather stumble than just tread those awful paths.
Despite the flightless bird that you are, you’d rather fly.
You’d soar higher, for your heart would set the limits and not the sky.

From the day you recognised colours, you’ve been painting the town red.
The canvas has never been blank, even if your life’s been but colourless.
For what are palettes to a mind with such torrent of emotions
Your fears formed the blackness in the painting, your liveliness too garish for the sight.

From the moment love tugged at your heartstrings,
You’ve been but singing all the while.
You’d rather sing without notes than in a voice that would tell you’ve cried.
Your emotions so melodious, you’d drown somewhere softly in the shallow sky.

From the moment you knew of movement, you’d rather run.
You’d run from place to place, all the responsibilities shun.
It was on the day when the drops of sweat smothered your own face,  
and your mind was sore, that you realized *life was not another game.